


pressed and rolled

by werewolfsquad



Series: last year's antlers [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Christmas Cookies, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, and this ask gave me an excuse, there's little explanation for this beyond that I wanted to write something sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfsquad/pseuds/werewolfsquad
Summary: Anon:I think a little holiday themed one shot in the Last Years Antlers series would be really sweetJohn & Arthur argue over cookie cutters.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: last year's antlers [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1302446
Comments: 20
Kudos: 84





	pressed and rolled

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an AU/canon divergent series (last year's antlers) but reading the other works in the series isn't necessary to read this fic. The only context you need is that John is married to both Abigail and Arthur, an arrangement they're all happy with, and they live happily on a ranch.

It was different, having a home.

Lots of things were different, of course. Abigail and him this happy and this settled for this long, that was different. The ring Arthur wore on the cord around his neck was different. Living not having to watch their backs constantly was different. _Bess_ was certainly goddamn different, and John was still coming to terms with the way he could already see Abigail in the set of her nose, the way she scrunched her face when she got frustrated. And John was pretty sure now that different was good, that there wasn’t much else John could possibly want.

Still, they were _baking_. And Christ, if seeing Arthur with flour streaked up his jaw made John want to kiss him this badly, despite how his hands were itching to grab the various cooking implements Arthur wielded, he still had it bad. 

They hadn’t meant to make a mess of things, of course. All they’d really intended was to take some of the work of Christmas Eve away from Abigail, who was busy enough trying to wrangle the kids, and John figured even they couldn’t mess up cookies, or, at least, no worse than Abigail herself might (which, to be fair, wasn’t much. Abigail couldn’t cook something in a skillet to save her life, but baking she’d gotten decent enough at. Sadie’s lessons had helped.)

He’d forgotten just how bad Arthur was at any sort of cooking that didn’t involve spearing something with a knife over an open flame. He’d had to relegate Arthur to mixing duty only when it was made clear to him that Arthur had an inexplicable amount of trouble understanding measuring out ingredients. And now—

“Y’gotta roll it out first, Arthur, look.” And John snatched the metal cutout from his husband, who had been holding a cookie cutter in one hand, a ball of dough in the other.

Arthur, of course, glared at him, because what else was John supposed to expect Arthur would do? Hissed, “How the hell am I supposed to know? Ain’t never done this before.”

John just snorted back at him. “And I ain’t either, but even I know you ain’t supposed to do whatever you’re goddamn doin’.”

“Was just gonna put it in the shape,” Arthur muttered back, and even though it sounded a touch sheepish, John sighed at him.

“And that ain’t gonna work, Arthur, ‘cause it gotta be even.”

Arthur paused, arms folded “Why?

“ _Why_?” 

John couldn’t help the indignant tone to his voice, but Arthur just looked at him steady, eyebrows low, said, “Yeah.”

“’cause it ain’t gonna bake right if it ain’t, Arthur, that’s like goddamn common—”

It was inevitable. Fighting, even on Christmas Eve, and Arthur snapping back, “And you’re some goddamn expert on bakin’ now?” It was who they were, and John should’ve known it would always come to this. Should’ve seen it coming when, a few more snapped words exchanged further, Arthur yanked the cookie cutter back, and held it out of John’s reach.

Later, when they were sitting around the fireplace, stomachs packed full with food that wasn’t perfect but was made with care, watching Jack tear open presents for both himself and for Bess, who wasn’t yet old enough to get the idea, John would look back on this with fondness. Would think that, despite all the arguing, there was nowhere else he’d rather be, safe and happy, nothing more to argue about than the best way to cut shapes out of cookie dough. 

Now, though, with Arthur holding the cutter just out of reach, pulling the same goddamn shit as he had since they were kids, John had had enough, goddamn Christmas or not. He swiped at the cookie cutter, and, when Arthur yanked it further back, away from John's hand, John went for his legs. 

Arthur was a fairly sturdy man, which meant he was relatively firm on his feet. However, John had been getting into fights with Arthur for near twenty years now, and he knew how to take Arthur down. Sure, winning against the other man was a crapshoot, especially when Arthur was so goddamn big, but surprise wasn’t nothing. And when Arthur went down, he went down hard. 

It was a quick and rough sort of fight, more play than anything else. John wasn’t really trying to hurt Arthur, not when they were fighting just to fight, and he knew pretty well that Arthur wasn’t trying to hurt him either. Even then, when Arthur ended up flat on his back on the floor, John sitting on his hips, he was quick to pin Arthur’s arms, pry the cookie cutter from Arthur’s hand. And then, when Arthur huffed out a breath of air, looked like he was about to start up arguing again, John dipped his head and captured Arthur’s lips with his own. 

Years now in this new arrangement, and kissing Arthur still felt like electricity coursing through his flesh. It wasn’t even like this was the first Christmas they spent together, the first time they’d spent an important event in this new family shape they’d carved out for themselves. Life with the gang was so far away, and yet, with his lips on Arthur’s, it was like it had been all those years ago, just barely done running, when kissing Arthur still felt like an indulgence, like something John wasn’t allowed to have. 

John couldn’t say if it was the same for Arthur, but he did feel Arthur relax under him, bring a hand up to cup the back of his head. And even when John smiled through the kiss, rubbed a thumb over the wrist he still held firm, Arthur snorted, let John drape his weight on top of him.

It wasn’t meant to last, of course. In a house with three adults, two children, visitors all over the place, they were bound to be interrupted eventually. Still, when the fervor that always took over John’s mind was broken by Abigail’s voice saying, “Really?” John couldn’t help the flush that crept up his neck, and he raised his head slowly, turned his gaze towards the door. 

Abigail was standing at the mouth of the kitchen, arms folded across her chest. The annoyance in her face was light, but annoyance all the same, and John felt himself straighten up. Had to clear his throat before saying, “We was kinda in the middle of somethin’ here.”

Abigail held his gaze, said, flatly, “In the middle of my kitchen, John Marston?”

“Ain’t just _your_ kitchen,” John muttered back, but he could hear the sheepishness in his own voice. 

Sure enough, Abigail wasn’t at all fazed, just said, “Just wanted to let you know that Sadie and Charlotte are here, if you’re intendin’ to make yourselves decent enough to see them.”

“We ain’t—” John started, but Abigail had already turned and left. 

Below him, Arthur had a hand over his face, and he let out a low groan, one that John knew well, something embarrassed and sheepish all the same. What John could see of his face was bright red, and John couldn’t help the smile that spread across his own face. 

He slipped off of Arthur, sliding to a seated position next to the other man. Only had to wait a handful of seconds before Arthur muttered, “She’s mad, ain’t she?”

John just shrugged. “Not really. An’ she’ll forgive us. Always does.” And that wasn’t a lie—Abigail loved them both in their own ways, and she wouldn’t have put up with this arrangement for this long if she actually cared about catching them kissing in the middle of the kitchen. It was more the principle of the thing, John suspected.

Arthur sighed at that, flipped himself onto his stomach. Went to heave himself to his feet, but leaned over to John first and, to John’s surprise, laid a kiss lightly on his forehead. And John had already opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was intending to say, when Arthur, now standing, said, quiet, “Merry Christmas, John,” and offered his hand to John to help him up. 

John shook his head, took Arthur’s hand. “Merry goddamn Christmas, Arthur.”

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out, cookie cutters started being imported to the US in the late 1800s, because even in tiny little fluffy oneshots I can't help but compulsively research.
> 
> Hey, I wrote something that isn't angsty for once! This has not been edited, so apologies for any typos. I just had to get it posted on Christmas. Thank you anon for the ask!
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [werewolfsquadron](http://werewolfsquadron.tumblr.com). Happy holidays!


End file.
